


The end is just the beginning (or This is how the story goes)

by SmilinStar



Category: The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, F/M, based on Alias (TV show)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-15
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-04-04 14:03:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4140477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmilinStar/pseuds/SmilinStar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I'm Caroline. Caroline Forbes,” she says instead, reaching out a hand across the table. It's a long three seconds before he reaches out and takes her hand. Firm grip, warm skin, and shakes once, “Nice to meet you, Agent Forbes.” AU fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not really sure how to preface this. I can't tell you where this came from, except to say it is heavily inspired by Alias and Sydney/Vaughn, who I shipped oh so very hard, and if you've seen the show before, you may actually recognise some of the scenes and themes/character variations which I have unashamedly used. In other words, this is a monster of an AU fic with steroline as spies and it tells the story of their escapades to save the world from evil, and somewhere along the way, they may or may not fall in love . . . If you're going to read this, I suggest you settle in, get comfortable, it's going to be a long and bumpy ride . . .

 

 

\-----

 

 

Rumours of a walk-in fly thick and fast through the office. There's a general buzz that follows such news. Questions of _who_ and _why_ are part and parcel, and she's the one tasked with getting to the bottom of both.

 

When they ask her to debrief him (it's definitely a _him_ , that's as much as they all have), she can't help the tone of surprise.

 

“Me?” she asks.

 

She's probably one of the youngest and least experienced agents at Langley but that doesn't make her any less eager to impress. Not when she's constantly battling innate misogyny in a man's world.

 

“Is that a problem, Agent Forbes?”

 

“No,” she's quick to negate with a shake of her head, “Not at all sir.”

 

Director Stevens gives her a pointed look from behind rimless spectacles and it's a look that says _I'm giving you a chance, don't make me rue the day we recruited you._

“I won't let you down.”

 

“Hmm,” he nods, before throwing out a name and finally answering the _who?_ “Stefan Salvatore.”

 

Again, she's surprised, but does a better job of hiding it, “As in . . . ?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Oh. Oh wow.”

 

He gives her another look, and she stutters to an apology, “I'm sorry, I'm refocussing.” And to prove her point, “So what do we have so far?”

 

“Nothing. He's in there now writing his statement.”

 

She nods, “Well, this'll be interesting.”

 

 

\-----

 

 

Blood.

 

It's all he sees behind closed eyelids.

 

He has a lot of it on his hands.

 

So many targets, faces he memorises for a day and forgets the very next. But the names. He remembers the names. Enemies of the state, he'd been told. And he'd believed.

 

Lies.

 

All of it.

 

So much blood on his hands.

 

But he'd never thought it would be _hers._

Bath water tinged red, blood sprayed across white tiles, skin turning blue, brown eyes lifeless, left hand limp over the side, ring still sparkling bright as the day he'd slipped it onto her finger.

 

His throat is still raw from the crying, tastes blood in his mouth, but that might have something to do with the torture and teeth pulling. His cheek is swollen, there's blood still staining his lips and his shirt, leather jacket; there's dirt smeared across almost every spare inch of him. It's caked in his hair and embedded deep under his fingernails.

 

He's a mess.

 

In every possible way.

 

When someone pops into the room behind him and drops a cup of coffee and a sandwich beside him, he doesn't even look up.

 

A female voice asks if he needs anything else.

 

“A pen,” he says, staring down at the five sheets he's filled already, “I need a new pen.”

 

 

\-----

 

She takes a breath, reminds herself that she's Caroline freakin' Forbes, graduated top of her class, recruited into the CIA while she was still in college, hand picked by the Director himself for this job.

 

She can do this.

 

He's sitting there, back to the door, when she walks in, attention held by an old framed photo of her and her boyfriend, Tyler. She spins it back around to face away from his perusal and takes a seat behind her desk. Finally, she gets a good look at him.

 

He looks awful.

 

Like he's been through ten rounds with someone's fist and the ground, and he didn't come out winning.

 

He looks up at her, holds her gaze, unflinching, green eyes blazing with anger and pain.

 

She runs her sweaty palm down her skirt, a nervous gesture hidden under the table.

 

Looking at him, the first word that comes to mind, is intense.

 

Everything about him.

 

“Am I in?” he asks.

 

She swallows, tries for a friendly smile, “Not yet, they need to verify your statement first, I mean it's . . . long, but I think this could be great. We could use another double agent in-”

 

He looks away, lips curving up into a smile, and its a little disconcerting, “What?” she asks, “What's so funny?”

 

He looks back at her, “You said _another_. Another double agent. You wouldn't be telling me this if I wasn't going to get authorised, unless you're hoping I'm a triple agent and you're trying to catch me out. Because, I'll tell you now, it's not gonna happen.”

 

“That's not what I'm doing. I'm not-” she shakes her head. Takes a breath and releases it on a sigh, “Are you okay? Do you need a doctor? A dentist?”

 

“I'm fine.”

 

He's anything but fine, but she lets it drop.

 

“I'm Caroline. Caroline Forbes,” she says instead, reaching out a hand across the table.

 

It's a long three seconds before he reaches out and takes her hand. Firm grip, warm skin, and shakes once, “Nice to meet you, Agent Forbes.”

 

 

\-----

 

 

He feels his presence before he even makes himself known.

 

“What are you doing here?”

 

“Hello to you too Stefan.”

 

He doesn't turn around, runs a hand over the top of the cold marble headstone, “Just because you stopped Mikaelson from killing me, doesn't absolve you from your involvement Damon. You knew who they were, you knew this whole black ops cover was a lie, that they weren't CIA, that they're the very enemy I thought I was working against, and you _still_ let me get involved. You _knew_ they were traitors when you started working for them. She's _dead_ because of _him_.”

 

“I'm sorry I couldn't stop it from happening.”

 

And he knows it, can hear it in the strain of his voice.

 

He reminds himself, he loved her too. Even though he shouldn't have. Even though she was never his to begin with. Didn't stop him from falling in love with her though.

 

Damon takes a step closer, “Mikaelson says you've come back to work. Stole the tech from the Chinese and took a beating to do it.”

 

“Didn't have a choice, did I? He already killed her, I was next. I had to prove I'm still loyal.”

 

“And are you? Really?”

 

He lies effortlessly, “Yes.”

 

Damon nods, there's a moment of silence, where there's nothing but the sound of wind rustling the leaves of the trees around them, and the phantom thumping of dead hearts under their feet.

 

And then, _then_ he says it, and Stefan's world shifts once again.

 

“Director Stevens told me to tell you. You're in. Congratulations brother.”

 

He spins around to face him, stares at the smirk on his lips and sparkling eyes, and it hits him, “You're CIA.”

 

“Yep,” he says, popping the 'p', hands in pockets as he rocks back onto the balls of his feet.

 

“You're the other double agent.”

 

“Ding ding ding! Give the man a medal. And you're supposed to be a spy!”

 

He shakes his head in disbelief. Of course.

 

Of course he is.

 

Damon claps his hand on his back, “You're gonna have to forgive me sooner or later, seems like we're gonna be working together a whole hell of a lot more now.”

 

 

\-----

 

 

She's officially designated his CIA handler a week later. It doesn't take long for his credentials to be authenticated and he passes his psych evaluation easy enough. The higher ups are thirsty for any advantage they can get over the Alliance, and having Stefan Salvatore in their pocket is definitely deemed to be one of them.

 

With the blood stains gone and dirt washed away, it's like a completely different human being walks into the empty campus library. Still, the intensity is the same, and the shroud of loss that hovers overhead has yet to dissipate (she's not sure it ever will). Oh, and he's still strikingly handsome with or without dirt on his face. To be honest, she's not sure which she prefers . . . and that is completely inappropriate and unprofessional, and so she swallows, shakes her head a little before standing up as he approaches her.

 

“Hey,” she says.

 

“Hey.”

 

She sits down, and he follows suit taking the seat opposite.

 

He raises a brow as he looks around, “College library?”

 

“The CIA have their hands in administration, we're safe here and free to talk.”

 

He nods, says nothing at first and she shifts in her chair, opens her mouth to speak but then he's beating her to it. A list of names, some of which she recognises, others she doesn't, spilling from his lips with a sense of urgency.

 

She looks at him bemused.

 

Until he says, “Those are the people we need to find, and bring down, and if we get them, then the entire organisation collapses, and then I am done.”

 

“Done?”

 

“I don't want to have any more to do with this spy crap. After this, I'm out.”

 

There's a pit in her stomach as she realises that _he doesn't know._ She doesn't want to be the one to do this, to open his eyes to just how wide and deep the cancer of the enemy organisation has spread, but she knows he can't be kept in the dark any longer.

 

And so she does it, rolls out the map and watches as his eyes widen at the sight of just how big the enemy they're fighting actually is. That maybe this is something neither one of them will be able to ever walk away from. And with it she watches the last bit of hope fade from his eyes, and she hates herself for it.

 

He falls back into his chair and asks, “So what now?”

 

“Now, you go back to your office, carry on as if nothing has changed. Contact us when you have a mission, we'll design a counter-mission, and that way we'll stay one step ahead of them, one step closer to destroying them from the inside out.”

 

He doesn't look at her as he stands up to leave, pulling one of the straps of his bag onto his shoulder. She stands too, and she doesn't know what she's doing when she says it, “Agent Salvatore?”

 

He turns to look at her, catches the look on her face, and raises a brow.

 

She realises she must look like she's swallowed something foul, and tries to explain. “I'm sorry, it's just _Agent Salvatore_ ,” she shudders, “That's your brother, and-”

 

“And you're not a fan, I'm guessing?”

 

She shakes her head, “Nooo, I'm not. I'm sorry, I know he's your brother, but he's just a grade A jackass and you're not him, you're _you_ , and . . .” and she stops her rambling, knows she's flushing pink. So much for professional.

 

There's a ghost of a smile on his lips, “Stefan. Stefan's fine.”

 

“Okay, sure, Stefan,” she tests the name out on her lips, before realising he's still waiting for her to finish whatever it was she had intended to say before going off on her tangent, “I just wanted to say . . . I'm sorry. I heard about what happened to your fiancée.”

 

The smiles drops, and he shuts down tighter than a drum, and she regrets ever saying it in the first place.

 

He gives her a small nod, turns back around and leaves.

 

She closes her eyes and shakes her head.

 

 

\-----

 

 

His first mission batting for the good guys and playing double agent goes off without a hitch. Although, it does come uncomfortably close to falling apart.

 

There's a delay in the CIA copying the disc, and there's a moment of fear that they're going to miss their slot to make the exchange.

 

He slows his pace just a fraction more walking down the airport terminal when he finally sees her approach. She's done a quick change from repairman to casual holidaymaker. Gone is the baseball cap and the unflattering grey jumpsuit, and in their place is a white knee-length sun dress instead. Her blonde tresses are no longer hidden away, but free and flowing around her shoulders, her face half hidden away behind large oversized sunglasses.

 

She executes the accidental bump to perfection, giggles girlishly after colliding with him and manages to slip the original disc back into his pocket without him even feeling the subtle manoeuvre.

 

She's good.

 

 _Really_ good.

 

He'd had his doubts. She'd just seemed so young when she'd first walked into that office, but he'd figured there had to be a reason why the CIA had entrusted their newest double agent asset to her.

 

And now he knows.

 

If his eyes linger on her back as she walks away and disappears into the crowd, he'd say he's just as good at selling his part.

 

 

\-----

 

 

“So how's it going?”

 

“Oh I just have the last of the encryptions to decode and that should hopefully obliterate the final firewall, and then we'll be in business!”

 

Caroline nods, “I will take your word for it Miss Bonnie Bennett, you are a wizard.”

 

Said wizard, the resident CIA tech expert, responds with a little shrug of her shoulders and a grin, “I do have magic in these fingertips, or so I've been told many times before.”

 

She smiles and it's half-hearted at best, and it doesn't go unnoticed.

 

“What's wrong?”

 

“What? Nothing's wrong.”

 

“For a spy, you are a terrible liar Forbes.”

 

She paces the small space of her office, reaches out to grab a particularly interesting piece of machinery only for her hand to be slapped away.

 

“Caroline?” she asks again.

 

“Stefan missed his scheduled check in.”

 

He's currently on a mission for Klaus Mikaelson's LA branch of the Alliance in Dresden, Germany. He's been tasked with securing a newly developed, highly combustible compound that has been touted to change the face of the explosives market globally. His counter-mission is simple really – destroy all samples and all the research along with it, make it out to be an accidental by-product of a highly volatile and unpredictable chemical, and thus keep his cover in tact.

 

Of course it means she can't get the picture of the plant blowing up with him still inside out of her head.

 

Not when he's over an hour late for his radio check in.

 

“ _Stefan?_ ” Bonnie asks, and the meaning behind her intonation is clear, but just in case, “So it's _Stefan_ now is it?”

 

She rolls her eyes at the implication,  “It's not like that.”

 

Bonnie doesn't look convinced.

 

“ _It's not._ ”

 

“Well good,” she says before clarifying, “Because you have a boyfriend. His name is Tyler.”

 

She sticks her hands on her hips and turns the full force of her glare on her friend and colleague, “I know. It's just I worry okay. I'm allowed to worry. The poor guy's fiancée was just murdered by the people he thought were the _good guys_ for telling her the truth about what he does for a living. He's just found out he's been unwittingly betraying our country and his brother is also a liar and a double agent! I don't care how good he is, it's got to be messing with his mind, and one false move and . . . kaboom!”

 

“I'm sure he's fine Caroline, compartmentalisation is what we do best.”

 

“Yeah,” she scoffs, “Cos that's healthy.”

 

There's no retort to that because Bonnie knows she's right.

 

It doesn't matter anyway as her phone goes off just then, and she answers it with a hurried, “This is Forbes . . . okay . . .yes . . . no, I'll be there.”

 

She hangs up and meets Bonnie's expectant gaze. She knows her next words will be met with a smug smile, but she doesn't care, the words feel a lot better than they should leaving her mouth, “He's fine.”

 

“See? I-”

 

“Don't.”

 

Bonnie completes her sentence anyway, “Told you!”

 

 

\-----

 

 

Lying to Klaus Mikaelson's face is the easy part.

 

Stopping himself from ripping his throat out and decapitating him? Not so much.

 

There's a glimmer of anger and suspicion in his eyes as he explains how the mission went sideways and he'd lost not only all existing samples of the compound but the formula for it too, but the doubt vanishes fast. His story is foolproof and the second-degree burns help sell it.

 

The worst of them are on his arms, most of which he'd got as he'd pushed apart the burning rails on his way out of the flaming chemical plant.

 

He doesn't know why, but he's suddenly struck by an image of Agent Forbes, and her face shifting from relief to shocked concern at the state of him. Warm, surprisingly soft fingers had reached out to grab his arm before he could react, and he's not sure she knew what she was doing. Not when he winced with the pain, and she took a step back, muttering apologies, blushing prettily . . .

 

He clears his head, refocusses on the man in front of him, and promptly realises why his mind had taken him there.

 

Caroline Forbes' kind, caring face vs. Klaus Mikaelson and his smarmy, traitorous one.

 

No contest really.

 

“You're not having a good month are you?” he says, British accent dripping with condescension.

 

He curls his fingers tight into his palm, forces his arm to stay by his side.

 

He shouldn't say anything really. Nothing at all.

 

And yet he does, “No I'm not.”

 

The _whose fault is that?_ is unspoken, and hovers like a ticking bomb.

 

“Better luck next time,” he says with a smile on his face, and the threat is loud and clear.

 

 _Mess up next time and I'll be clearing_ you _off the floor._

\-----

“He sounds like a real smarmy bastard,” she says, the words dripping with disgust.

 

“That's one word to describe him.”

 

She can see him from the corner of her eyes, bending his leg at the knee, stretching his quads. She resists the urge to turn around and look at him. From what she can see that white t-shirt is doing wonders for showing off his biceps, and she hasn't even got a proper glimpse at them.

 

They're standing almost back to back beside a park bench. It keeps up the ruse of two complete strangers running out in the park, who just so happen to be using the same bench for their post-workout stretch and cool-down. They don't know each other, and they certainly don't work with each other. It's the only safe way to meet out in public so that the Alliance don't catch wind. It does mean they can't be seen to be actually conversing, hence not being able to ogle those biceps in all their glory. And yes, okay, not professional, but she's only human.

 

“So what are we going to do?”

 

“I don't know,” she answers, “I'll take it back to Stevens.”

 

She takes a swig of water from her bottle.

 

“So any plans for the weekend?”

 

She nearly chokes.

 

Coughing, she answers, “Uh no.”

 

“Oh.”

 

She tries to keep her face completely straight, positive the public around her will think she's lost her marbles. Small talk. Stoic, broody Agent Stefan Salvatore indulging in casual conversation. She's not sure what to make of it.

 

“I mean,” she tries again, “I have a rare few days off, I think I'm just gonna curl up on the couch with only a bottle of wine and my _Friends_ boxset for company.”

 

“Oh,” he says again with a hint of confusion and she can almost see his brows furrow, “I just thought . . .”

 

“Thought what?”

 

“Is your husband away on business or something?”

 

She nearly chokes again, “My husband?”

 

“Yeah the guy in the picture frame on your desk-”

 

“Tyler? He's not my husband, he's my boyfriend, well sort of . . . it's complicated-”

 

“Sorry,” he interrupts, “None of my business.”

 

Except all she can think is, “You thought I was married?”

 

“I just-”

 

“For a spy you're super observant aren't you? I don't even wear a ring. Well not a wedding band at least.”

 

“Doesn't mean . . . never mind. I'm sorry, like I said, not my business. So you'll let me know what Stevens says?”

 

“Changing the subject huh?” she can't help but tease, “Smooth.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

She tries not to laugh. It's even harder not to turn around and watch him leave.

 

 

\-----

 

 

His cheeks are flaming red as he runs away.

 

Has absolutely no idea where any of that came from.

 

Thinks the stress of the spy-life has finally gotten to him.

 

He needs to get out.

 

 _Really_ needs to get out.

 

Sooner rather than later.

 

 

\-----

 

 

She loves Christmas.

 

It's one of her favourite times of the year.

 

The spirit of the season just suits her perfectly.

 

So if she ends up buying gifts for everyone, and one of those people happen to be Stefan Salvatore, it really doesn't mean anything.

 

“What's this?” he asks, referring to the small gift bag she's dropped beside him before moving to the opposite bookshelf in the small store.

 

“It's nothing, really. It's just a Christmas present, from one colleague to another.”

 

“Agent Forbes-”

 

“I give everyone gifts, it's just what I do. Deal with it.”

 

He sighs, and she hears the rustle of the paper bag as he picks it up. She doesn't know why she holds her breath, but she does.

 

There's the slightest of chuckles then, it's breathless and brief, but she feels a smile growing on her face, and she's glad she has her back to him, because it's just a tiny little bit ridiculous.

 

“A snow globe?”

 

“Told you, nothing really.”

 

“Thank you,” he says after a long moment.

 

“You're welcome.”

 

 

\-----

 

 

The next mission ends up being a complete disaster from start to finish.

 

The worst thing is, it's not a surprise. Doesn't come as a shock of any sort.

 

No, because it's a planned sacrifice.

 

Too many missions going awry in such a short space of time had put him under the spotlight, and so the CIA board of directors had come to the unanimous agreement that they needed Mikaelson to win this one round.

 

It goes against every nerve fibre and impulse in his brain to curl his finger around that trigger and pull, but he does it.

 

Another innocent's blood on his hands, and the stains won't go.

 

They just won't.

 

He scrubs and he scrubs but it's soaked through, every splatter tattooed into his skin.

 

That's how she finds him.

 

Bent over the sink of the empty men's rest-room, a heap of paper towels on the floor, water splashing onto the counter top, water sloshing in the basin tinged a familiar, sickening red.

 

“Hey,” she says, her voice achingly soft, “You okay? You literally ran out of that briefing room.”

 

“I'm fine,” he answers roughly.

 

“They don't blame you, you know?” She's talking about the CIA, all the suits sat around that large oval oak table, congratulating him on a job well done, for doing what was necessary, even if it was a difficult choice to make. It's brave. It's for the greater good. It's all fucking bullshit.

 

“Yeah, well _I_ blame them,” he spits out.

 

He carries on scrubbing his hands, turning them a raw red. It only feeds the nightmare.

 

He closes his eyes tight, hands gripping the counter top as he drops his head.

 

There's a hand on his lower back, warm and heavy, and he can feel her standing right there behind him but he can't make himself lift his eyes to meet hers in the mirror.

 

“It's okay,” she whispers.

 

“No. No, it's not. I feel like I am losing my mind. I feel like I can't breathe, like I am slowly suffocating in that office every single day I work for that monster! Every time I see his face . . .” and he figures he's already completely lost the plot, may as well go the full distance, “I see . . . _her.”_ His face feels wet, but he's past the point of caring.

 

“Just when I think it can't get any worse, when I think _I can't_ do any-”

 

She turns him around them, cuts him off by grabbing hold of his face with both her hands and forcing him to look down at her, “Ssshh, it's not your fault. It's not your fault.”

 

She runs her thumbs over the top of his cheekbones, wipes away the tears and just breathes in time with him. And somehow she does it. The belt across his chest loosens, the air finds its way into his lungs with less and less effort and then all that's left are clear blue, bottomless eyes staring back at him.

 

Some day, he'll probably admit it was then.

 

Then, that his cold, dead heart started beating again. One slow sluggish thump after another.

 

“Come to me,” she says, and the next beat is just that little bit stronger . . .

 

“Whenever you feel like the walls are closing in on you-

 

And steadier . . .

 

“And you feel at your worst-

 

And faster . . .

 

“Come to me-

 

It jumps . . .

 

“I promise you, I will help you get through it. You are not alone. You have me.”

 

And it soars.

 

 

\-----

 

 

It's only six months into her job as Stefan Salvatore's handler that she finally gets some recognition.

 

They actually make a pretty damn good team, and it's about time someone acknowledges it.

 

The CIA has had more success in cracking down on underground black market dealing of weaponry and arms in these past six months than they have in the past two years altogether. They'd managed to land a substantial blow to the Alliance's financial supports and lost them significant backers.

 

They've done a great job.

 

So when the board finally congratulates her on her exemplary work and well earned victories, she doesn't even think twice about channelling her inner _Elle Woods_. With a brush of her blonde curls over her shoulder, the words just fall out of her mouth on autopilot;

 

“What, like it's hard?”

 

She exits the room with an extra sway of her hips and leaves behind a room full of confused middle aged men.

 

She fast walks it out of there in her skirt suit and heels, all the way to Bonnie's little workshop.

 

When she tells her what happened, Bonnie doesn't stop laughing.

 

Not for days.

 

 

\-----

 

 

“What is that?”

 

She turns to face him as he walks into the old abandoned warehouse.

 

It's a good, well hidden spot. Perfect for their briefings, and makes it a whole lot easier to actually talk and discuss the finer details of his counter-missions than the awkwardly staged public run-ins. It's a whole lot safer too. He wishes they'd found the place sooner.

 

“This?” he answers, spinning the pizza box to and fro on the pads of his fingers as he holds it aloft, “I have no idea.”

 

She rolls her eyes, but there's a smile on her face and he doesn't even realise he's smiling right back at her.

 

“Haha, I mean what's the occasion?”

 

“Nothing. I was hungry.”

 

She shakes her head before snatching it off him, flips it open and takes a slice. She's biting into it before he has a chance to respond, and he can do nothing but watch her lips close around the piece, and promptly looks away.

 

He leans up against the concrete wall as she takes a seat on one of the crates.

 

“It's good,” she says, mouth still half full as she offers the box to him, “Here.”

 

He waves his hand, “No, you have it. Looks like you need it more than me. I'll pick up another on my way home,” and then changes the subject before she can argue;

 

“So I have some info the CIA could use.”

 

She puts down the box, and looks up at him expectantly.

 

He folds his arms across his chest, “Damon overheard a phone conversation between Mikaelson and Sir Laurie Thomas, the-”

 

“Head honcho of the London branch of the Alliance.”

 

He nods, “He agreed to a transfer of seven and a half million dollars from his personal Cayman accounts-”

 

“Blackmail?”

 

“He has something over Thomas, something huge and I think it could put Thomas' position in the Alliance in serious jeopardy-”

 

“And if we can find out what it is-”

 

“We could destabilise the Alliance, and it might give us a shot at-”

 

“Chopping the head off the monster.”

 

“Exactly.”

 

She grins, “This is good news Stefan!”

 

“I guess it is Agent Forbes.”

 

She stares pointedly at him.

 

“Sorry, _Caroline.”_

“See, it's not that hard is it? Say it with me Ca-ro-line.”

 

No it's not hard to say it. What's hard to do is forget the way he'd exposed himself to her so thoroughly, the way she had held his face between her hands and made a promise that blurs the line between professional and personal, and he's still struggling with the idea of it. The idea of actually being friends. He's not sure he's emotionally ready to open himself up to that yet, and he has to keep hold of some semblanceof a professional distance, it's the only way he'll ever stay afloat.

 

He can't let himself get attached to someone else.

 

He thinks only of blood and water and _he just can't._

He shakes his head.

 

“We're friends, right?”

 

And then she's looking at him with _those_ eyes and he's helpless.

 

“Yes,” he says.

 

And when she smiles at him, he realises he'd lost the battle before it had even begun.

 

 

\-----

 

 

All she hears is gunfire and suddenly it's just static on the radio.

 

Her heart is in her throat, her pulse throbbing at an erratically fast rate.

 

“Stefan?” she calls out, “Stefan do you read this? Stefan, come in. Stefan?”

 

It's nothing but white noise.

 

“Damn it!” she throws the head piece onto the desk and grabs hold of her gun, shoves it hurriedly into her holster and slips the bulletproof vest on over her head.

 

Bonnie looks up at her from her seat behind the computer screen, horror all over her face, “Caroline? What are you doing? You can't-”

 

“I can't leave him in there.”

 

“This is supposed to be surveillance only!”

 

“Yeah that was until they started shooting up the place!”

 

“Caroline? Caroline!”

 

Bonnie's frantic yells fall on deaf ears as Caroline rushes out of their surveillance van and heads straight for the factory warehouse.

 

Stefan and Damon had been sent in to meet a group of black market Russian dealers for a trade off in a newly developed synthetic polymer thought to be a hundred times more durable than Kevlar, and fifty times lighter. An army kitted out in it from top to bottom would be damn near invincible. The CIA naturally didn't want the Alliance anywhere near it.

 

The Salvatore brothers had somehow managed to persuade Mikaelson into letting them lead the negotiations to acquire the polymer, and were supposed to be offering a substantial monetary value in return, but it sounded like somewhere along the line, the Russians had decided they were going to take the money _and_ keep their polymer.

 

She fears the worst when she creeps into the warehouse and sees the upturned table and chairs, shattered glass, and a pool of blood on the floor. She almost doesn't want to follow the trail to the body lying there on the floor but she does. She has to.

 

_It's Damon._

_Shit._

 

She scans over his body quickly, spots the rise and fall of his chest and realises he's only been shot in the arm and must have been knocked unconscious in the fight.

 

She turns her frantic search to Stefan then, and finds him easy enough.

 

He's alive, but for how much longer she doesn't know. He's backed into a wall, facing the barrel of a gun. He's surrounded by three of the Russian thugs.

 

They're outnumbered.

 

But she's faced worse odds.

 

She creeps quietly forward out of the shadows. All three of them have their backs to her, but Stefan? Stefan sees her almost immediately. There's the subtlest clenches of his jaw when he spots her, eyes widening just a fraction, and she can see everything he's thinking.

 

_It'll have to wait._

 

She signals.

 

He clenches his eyes tight.

 

And then they're springing into action.

 

She shoots one of them in the leg, the distraction enough for Stefan to disarm his assailant, before throwing a punch.

 

She surges forward and roundhouse kicks thug number three in the head, he stumbles back on his feet and it's not enough to knock him out. He's on her before she has a chance to recover, grabbing hold of her and throwing her into the wall. She hits her head hard and she squeezes her eyes shut on impact. The pain is blinding and she can't even process it because he's on her again.

 

She's vaguely aware of Stefan fighting his own battle in the background, but finds it difficult to call out as thug three has her in a choke hold. She kicks behind her, connecting with his shin. The man grunts with pain but it's not enough to dislodge his hold. She's starting to see spots now, struggling to get any air into her lungs.

 

 _This is how I die,_ she thinks.

 

Stefan calls out her name.

 

It's frantic and desperate.

 

His voice is the last thing she hears.

 

 

\-----

 

 

“What the hell were you thinking?”

 

No, it isn't the first thing he'd thought he'd say when she finally opens her eyes, but the overwhelming sense of relief is almost too much for him to process, and the only outlet available in that moment is anger.

 

Rationally he knows she's a CIA agent, more than able to handle herself in hand to hand combat. She's capable, she's strong, she's _his friend._ And all he can see is her slumped body on the ground when he finally knocks the last of the Russians out. And all he remembers is the agonising wait to feel the thump of her pulse on his fingertips.

 

The last time he'd had to do that, he hadn't felt a thing.

 

“You were supposed to stay in the van! You could have _died_ Caroline,” and then more quietly, his voice somehow holding up despite the heavy pressure against his chest, “ _You could have died.”_

She doesn't apologise.

 

Her throat is hoarse and barely audible, “I saved your life.”

 

He stares at her, shakes his head, and sighs, “Caroline . . .”

 

He doesn't get to say anything more as the door to her hospital room swings open with force and a man with dark hair bursts in, “Caroline? What the hell happened? Are you okay? Who did this?”

 

He's by her side in two steps, hands clutching her face with startling intimacy and it's like a splash of ice cold water. He takes a step back.

 

The guy whirls around to face him, “Who are you?”

 

He bristles at the tone, but manages to keep his tone even, “Stefan. Stefan Salvatore. You must be Tyler. I work with Caroline. At the bank.”

 

Caroline is looking back at him, but he refuses to meet her eyes.

 

“Were you there? What happened?”

 

His eyes fall to her hands clasped tight in Tyler's before looking back up to meet the other man's glare, “Asshole of a customer went psycho and attacked her and a few other people, he's in police custody now.”

 

Tyler nods, relaxes a fraction, “Well thanks for looking out for her man, but I've got it from here.”

 

“Sure.”

 

He makes the mistake of looking back at her as he leaves.

 

She's still looking at him.

 

 

\-----

 

 

It's a little after midnight when the door opens again, and someone settles in the chair beside her bed.

 

She's been drifting in and out of sleep since Tyler left late in the afternoon. The potent painkillers have kept her dozing for hours.

 

She doesn't recognise him.

 

Not at first.

 

She sees the white sling around his left arm, and the dark hair, and her fuzzy brain somehow manages to put it together, “Agent Salvatore?”

 

Her voice is husky, it still hurts to talk but she pushes through the pain, “What-”

 

“Do I want? Why am I here?” he finishes for her, “Been debating that myself for the past hour or so.”

 

She doesn't say anything.

 

He swallows, “I wanted to thank you. For saving my brother.”

 

She realises then, in her drug addled state, that for all their arguments and their long-standing feud (over what, she still doesn't quite know), the Salvatore brothers truly love each other. Doesn't mean she actually likes Damon, but she figures they have something in common now.

 

“Not bad Blondie,” he says, “Although next time, try not to get yourself strangled within an inch of your life.”

 

“Screw you asshole.”

 

The bastard laughs.

 

 

\-----

 

 

It takes him two days to finally calm down.

 

Two days to apologise.

 

Two days to finally say “Thank you.”

 

She doesn't reply straight away. Makes him sweat a little before saying, “You do know your brother beat you to it right?”

 

He shakes his head, a smile spreading on his lips at the sight of hers, “And let me guess, you're never gonna let me live it down?”

 

She outright grins, “Nope.”

 

 

\-----

 

 

“So what's the story?”

 

Caroline tries to ignore her, instead trying to focus her attention on the projected presentation and Director Stevens' talk.

 

“Caroline?” Bonnie whispers.

 

“Nothing.”

 

“Caroline. Well?”

 

She doesn't dare look at her, “No. I said no.”

 

Bonnie says nothing.

 

“What? No opinion?”

 

“No. I just hope you know what you're doing.”

 

She does too.

 

 

\-----

 

 

Its two months later before she's let out into the field, and he's along for the ride.

 

As far as missions go, it's a simple one.

 

This job, if they can pull it off, will bring him one step closer to taking down the Alliance. One step closer to walking away from this life for good.

 

Sir Thomas is holding a charity event at one of his many grand estates. This particular one is deep in the middle of the beautiful Hampshire countryside. The party, according to the intel, is in celebration of the success of his international business expansion, and independent of his underground activity with the Alliance. But though they expect the Alliance presence to be thin on the ground, they're not going in unprepared.

 

Stefan's watch is armed with the ability to deliver three hundred joules of electricity at the press of a button, since good old fashioned knives and guns aren't going to make it through security at the front door. Caroline's pins hidden in her hair are sharp, pointy and toxic.

 

But it's not just weaponry they need. After all, they need Thomas' hard drive to get to the bottom of just what he's hiding from the Alliance and so Bonnie's been hard at work with creating new gadgets tailored for the mission.

 

They've both been fitted with the latest radio ear pieces – they're tiny and barely visible sitting camouflaged in the external ear canal. His cufflinks are embedded with a fine laser that can cut through glass and metal, and Bonnie's pretty damn proud of them when she showcases them.

 

The pièce de résistance though isn't his for the night.

 

It's Caroline's.

 

Bonnie opens up the little compact mirror and hidden inside under the surface is next level tech, which will literally copy any hard drive and fry it once it's finished. Bonnie explains it in much more technical and vivid detail, but that's the gist of it.

 

He should be jealous of Caroline, getting the best toy of them all, but he's too distracted to care.

 

He's seen many beautiful women in his line of work.

 

Seduction just another in his long list of weapons and skills to get what he needs, and many women have found themselves falling prey to it. But never have any one of them made him turn his head. They're all forgotten within seconds of getting the job done, never to be thought about again.

 

It's been a long time since the sight of a woman in an elegant dress has made his heart stutter and palms sweat.

 

It doesn't surprise him that it's Caroline who does it.

 

She's stunning.

 

Wearing a floor length, off-white, strapless dress, that hugs all her curves and flares out to the ground at her hips; with her hair done up and blood red lips, he thinks she knows exactly what she's doing.

 

But turnabout's fair play after all, and he gets some satisfaction in watching how her eyes widen when she sees him, gaze unabashedly sweeping down the length of him before snapping back up to meet his. Her cheeks are pink and he's not sure it's all make up.

 

He holds the gaze for entirely too long, flashes back to sad eyes in a hospital room and another man's hands on those blushing cheeks, and just like that, the moment is broken.

 

She clears her throat, “So we have our toys, what are our aliases?”

 

 

\-----

 

 

 _Damn it,_ she thinks, _of course he looks like_ that _in a freakin' tux!_

There's a moment that passes between them, and it's charged and she doesn't know what to make of it, because _they're friends_ , and he's still grieving over his dead fiancée, and damn it, they have more important things to deal with like wiping the Alliance off the face of this Earth, and so she breathes and brings them back on topic.

 

Bonnie, magician that she is, has managed to hack into the list of guests invited to the event and has stolen the identity of two of them. And of course, her friend is not without a sense of humour as she answers her question by handing them carbon copy replicas of the classy, cream and gold invites.

 

Stefan's face is a picture.

 

“Mr and Mrs Smith?”

 

Caroline could literally murder her. And she knows of over a hundred different, creative ways to do it too.

 

Except, the strangest thing happens.

 

Stefan laughs.

 

His eyes crease at their corners and he expels air in the sound of laughter.

 

“See, he appreciates it,” Bonnie shrugs with a wide smile.

 

And just like that the awkward, weird tension is broken and her dress doesn't feel nearly so tight.

 

“How's your British accent,” Bonnie asks.

 

“Fantastic actually.”

 

“Too bad. You're both filthy rich Americans with philanthropic hearts of gold.”

 

“I can do that,” Caroline shrugs.

 

Stefan offers her his bent elbow, “Shall we?”

 

 

\-----

 

 

Getting in is easy enough.

 

Sneaking away to hack into Thomas' computer proves a lot more difficult.

 

He'd hoped they would be out of there in twenty minutes tops, but the stairs to the upper floor are guarded and they need a distraction.

 

He bends his head and whispers into her ear, “Come on, dance with me.”

 

She lets him pull her on to the dance floor easy enough. Her “I didn't come here to dance with you,” ruined by the smile on her face.

 

His one hand curves around her waist, the other holds her hand, and they sway mingling in the crowd of guests.

 

He throws her out and spins her back into his arms, and she says laughing, “So he dances.”

 

He shrugs, a grin on his face, “If I want to.”

 

And all of a sudden she seems a lot closer than she had been, and he knows she can feel it too.

 

He swallows, “You okay?”

 

“Tyler asked me to marry him.”

 

She just bursts out with it, and he can see from her shocked expression that she had never intended for it to come out that way.

 

And he _doesn't_ care.

 

He _shouldn't_ care, but he's taking a step back and although her hand is still in his, it feels like there are miles of distance between them now.

 

He clears his throat, voice low as he asks, “What did you say?”

 

“No. I said no.”

 

He should say something, he knows, but he's reeling and Bonnie has perfect timing as her voice crackles to life, “Guys, as enthralling as this is, _not the time_ , move!”

 

She blushes, and he can see the shift in her eyes as she switches her focus and forgets their momentary lapse of concentration.

 

“Him,” she says, looking over his shoulder.

 

He leads her slightly to the left to get a quick look, “Go for it.”

 

She subtly removes the pins from her hair, the curls falling down around her shoulders, and hides them flat against the palm of her hand.

 

He makes a show of going to get them more drinks and heads in the general direction of the stairs, while she sidles up to one of the suits. Giggling coquettishly, she leans in close, captures his attention within seconds and he's shamelessly responding to her flirtation. When the timing is right she pricks him, and the idiot has no idea.

 

One little prick is all it takes. The toxin is incredibly potent, and designed to knock someone out and give all the appearances of a heart attack. No one notices a thing, not until he's crashing to the ground and by then Caroline is a good ten feet away.

 

The ensuing commotion is enough to get the guards' attention.

 

And just like that, the coast is clear.

 

 

\-----

 

 

Getting into the computer turns out to be surprisingly easy.

 

But the size of the hard drive is bigger than they anticipated and the download takes longer than it should.

 

There are several moments where they think they hear footsteps and think they're going to get caught, but each time is a false alarm.

 

When the drive finally flashes green, she lets out an audible sigh of relief.

 

Stefan looks at her.

 

“That literally took ten years off my life.”

 

“What do you mean? You look eternally seventeen.”

 

She shakes her head at him, “You seriously need to work on your flattery, because that? That was awful.”

 

He laughs, and she thinks she's falling in love with the sound of it.

 

“Quit flirting you two, and get out of there! Now!”

 

Bonnie's voice in her ear brings her crashing down to reality, but Stefan's grabbing her hand and pulling her out of the room before she can fully react.

 

They're making their way down the hallway, nearly at the top of the stairs when they hear voices getting louder and coming up to the landing. This time it's not a false alarm.

 

The panic starts to build, and she's looking around for an exit, but they're trapped with nowhere to run. She can see him running through all the possibilities too as he stands in front of her, shielding her slightly from whoever or whatever is coming.

 

There's only one thing for it, and she realises it just as it dawns on him.

 

There's a split second where she thinks he's asking for permission, but there is literally no time for it.

 

She pulls on the lapels of his jacket about the same time he pushes her into the wall. His lips are on hers and he steals her breath away.

 

She'll admit it now that it's happening.

 

She's thought about this moment.

 

A lot.

 

And it's better that anything she'd imagined.

 

He's kissing her hard, tongue running along the seam of her lips before she opens her mouth and lets him in. Hands roam down her back and tangle in her hair as he deepens the kiss.

 

Her heart is thundering away in her chest as she clutches at his arm, her other hand tugging at his shirt.

 

It's madness. It's not real.

 

_But oh it certainly feels like it is._

 

And so of course, it works a treat.

 

“Hey!” comes the affronted voice of one of the security guards, “Excuse me, you shouldn't be up here. This area is out of bounds for guests.”

 

Stefan pulls away from her lips, body still firmly pressing her into the wall, “Oh I'm sorry man,” he says, exaggerating his natural American accent, “You know how it is? Needed a little privacy.” He punctuates his point by sliding his hand down over her ass. She retaliates by leaning forward and kissing up behind his ear and scraping her teeth along his skin.

 

She can feel the tension tightening like a coil inside him.

 

She presses a little harder.

 

The guard is flushing red, “I'm sorry, but I can't allow you-”

 

Stefan pulls away completely, and grabs her hand again, “Yeah whatever dude. We're going.”

 

They don't hang around and wait.

 

She follows his lead, tries to steady her breathing, in and out, and doesn't say a word.

 

 

\-----

 

 

Silence. 

 

It's just awkward silence the entire way home.

 

In the van.

 

On the plane.

 

In the car back at home on U.S. soil.

 

She doesn't look at him once.

 

And he can't help but think, _everything_ has changed.

 

 

 

\-----

 

 

For once he's already there in the warehouse before her, which is great.

 

Perfect.

 

Because damn it, she's not some schoolgirl with a crush.

 

She is a grown woman, a CIA agent, a damn good one too. And she is his handler and he, her asset, and it's time they draw some lines and act like the professionals they are.

 

And that little moment had been an act, a ruse, _part of their job_ , and completely necessary and meaningless, and damn it. He's standing there leaning against the railing, dressed in his suit, one leg bent at the knee, arms folded across his chest, head down and tilted to the side as he spots her. He looks like a freakin' model for a magazine and she has a sudden urge to growl in frustration.

 

She doesn't though.

 

No, instead she takes a deep breath and dives right in, “Agent Salvatore, good. You're here.”

 

He raises a brow at the formality, but straightens up and turns to face her.

 

“Hey,” he says.

 

She ignores the greeting, “So the CIA are about fifty percent of their way through sifting through Thomas' personal files. None of it has proven useful so far, but we've had a few hits that could lead somewhere.”

 

He nods, “Okay, good.”

 

“And on your end?”

 

“Everything's fine. Mikaelson doesn't suspect a thing. He's sending me to Mexico City this evening to meet with one of the Alliance's main arms dealers.”

 

She frowns, “Why?”

 

“Wants to strike up a newer lucrative deal. Vargas has been working for Mikaelson for three years now, but I think he's getting a little too cocksure and big for his boots.”

 

“Let me guess, he wants you to deliver a message for him.”

 

He drops his head, and looks away, and she can see the tension in the set of his jaw. Remembers just how much he hates this life, how he hates what he has to do to stay alive. She wants to step forward and grab hold of his arms, force him to look down at her and reassure him that it's all going to be worth it, that they are going to see this through and _win_ , but she _can't._

“Fine,” she says instead, keeping her voice cool, emotionless, “Touch base with us when you get back and we should have more news on the Thomas situation by then.”

 

He purses his lips and nods, stares at her with an intensity that reminds her of when they first met.

 

She nods in return, spins to leave, but only gets a few steps before he's calling out.

 

“Caroline?”

 

She stops.

 

“Are we okay?”

 

She turns her head to look back at him, “We're fine.”

 

He sticks his hands into the pockets of his trousers and takes a step towards her, “Really? Because this . . .” he moves his hand back and forth in front of him, “Us . . .”

 

She breathes in and out, “We are colleagues, nothing more.”

 

“That's funny,” he says taking another step, “Because I thought we were friends.”

 

She looks away.

 

“Because, if this is about what happened back in England, and that moment-”

 

“It's not,” she snaps back, “It's just . . . it's better this way.”

 

“Is that what you really want?”

 

And she never admitted it to herself before now, but she knows the answer to his question. Has known it for a while now.

 

What she wants is something she can't have.

 

And so she lies.

 

“Yes.”

 

He looks hurt, it's open and there for her to see. Lets her see it for a few seconds before he seals it away and nods, “Fine. I'll see you when I get back, Agent Forbes.”

 

He walks past her then and leaves.

 

He doesn't look back.

 

And she thinks she may regret this moment for the rest of her life.

 

 

\-----

 

 

Damon is sent for the final briefing before he gets on the plane for Mexico City.

 

He's already there on the tarmac waiting for him when he arrives.

 

“Cutting it a bit close aren't you, Stefan?” he says, looking down at his wrist watch.

 

“That's me, flying by the skin of my teeth.”

 

“Here,” Damon says handing him a black briefcase, “All you're gonna need to get Vargas to capitulate.”

 

He tries and fails not to grimace.

 

“Don't go getting soft on me now brother. You know what'll happen if you don't.”

 

“Throat slit, and dumped in a bath tub?”

 

He doesn't know what possesses him to say it, but he regrets it the second his blue eyes flash with hurt.

 

 _He loved her too_ , and he hasn't forgotten that. He hasn't.

 

“I'm sorry, I don't know why I said that.”

 

He swallows, “Its fine.”

 

“None of it is fine Damon. I'm sick of this. So sick of it.”

 

And there must be something in his tone, something in his eyes as he says it that Damon sees. Something that makes the hard angles of his face soften, and all hints of mockery and sarcasm melt away. It's the most earnest expression he's ever seen on him.

 

That's a lie.

 

He's seen it once before.

 

A cold, wet Thursday afternoon, and he'd just got back from school, covered in mud from football practice and he'd been running down the street, hoping to sneak in through the back door to avoid getting yelled at. But when he'd turned the corner, all he'd seen were the flashing lights of a police car and it's only as he got closer, that he'd realised it was parked outside _his_ front door, and the sense of dread that had taken over his ten year old little body then is a feeling he'll never forget.

 

Damon had been sitting at the dinner table with an officer when he'd walked in.

 

He'd turned to look at him, eyes red and wet, and he just _knew_.

 

“Mom?”

 

His seventeen year old brother had walked over, crouched down in front of him and said, “I'm sorry, buddy. I'm so so sorry.”

 

And then;

 

 _“_ _It's gonna be okay, I promise.”_

 

Hearing those same words all over again, doesn't make him believe them any more than he had the first time around.

 

Still, he appreciates the effort. Knows Damon, in his way, has always cared. Things may have got a little off-track - falling for the same woman was always going to do that, and the fact she chose one of them over another would always hang over them like a black cloud – but he knows, at the end of the day, _they're brothers._ And that still means something.

 

And so he nods, hopes he conveys what he means in what he doesn't say, “I'll see you when I get back.”

 

Damon gives him a tight smile as he backs away towards the plane, “Be careful.”

 

“Always.”

 

 

\-----

 

 

Bonnie finds her cleaning her office.

 

She'd probably call it stress cleaning, but whatever.

 

Although there may be a little truth in it, it's actually a damn good thing she's doing it. The amount of crap she's uncovered in her drawers is ridiculous and completely gross.

 

Her friend stops in the door way and she can feel the worry coming off her in waves.

 

“How many hours has it been since he was supposed to be back?”

 

“Thirty six.”

 

She sighs, and even Bonnie sounds like she doesn't believe her own words, “I'm sure, he's-”

 

“Fine?” she whirls around to face her, “Thirty-six hours Bonnie. _Thirty-six_.”

 

“What about Damon? Does he know anything?”

 

She shakes her head miserably, “He's trying to convince Mikaelson to let him go after him, see what's happened, where he's gone. Apparently Alliance lost their signal on him at 0800 yesterday.”

 

Bonnie's face is just a picture of sympathy and she doesn't need it.

 

“Don't,” she says.

 

“Caroline . . .”

 

“No, I can't believe I told him we weren't _even friends_ the last time I saw him. I can't let that be our last conversation. Because it's not true. Because I . . .”

 

Bonnie hugs her then. “I know,” she whispers, “I know.”

 

 

\-----

 

 

Pain. 

 

Blinding pain is all he feels.

 

He feels like someone's cracked his skull open, and the ropes cutting into his arms and legs, tying him to this chair are burning his skin off.

 

The blood that had trickled down from his head wound down the side of his face has dried and it itches. He can't do anything about it, and its torture.

 

His head is pounding, can barely lift it up to properly take in his surroundings.

 

He hardly remembers anything of what happened to get him here.

 

Just remembers the plane touching down on the private runway, getting out onto the tarmac, and into a black sedan parked there waiting.

 

Vague images of the streets of Coyoacán flit through his mind, the busy restaurants and cantinas; sitting in one of the outdoor café’s waiting for Vargas to show, the increasing agitation as the second hand on his watch ticks, and the minutes turn into an hour and a half and nothing happens.

 

He groans in pain, head falling back as the images come back now in flashes.

 

The squeal of tyres as a black SUV pulls into the main road. The frightened, panicked shouts of customers, tourists and locals alike as masked men rush out of the vehicle and swarm him. Guns out and aiming at his chest, he's outnumbered and can't fight back.

 

His easy surrender doesn't stop them from yanking on his arm as they shove him into the back of the car.

 

The last thing he remembers is the butt of a gun smashing down on his head, and the warm trickle of blood before he's lost to the darkness.

 

He's grateful for the dark now.

 

Thinks his brain will literally explode with even the smallest ray of light.

 

The bastards must somehow read his mind though, because all of a sudden a spotlight comes on overhead. It's harsh and bright and hot. He squeezes his eyes tight, blinded by it and the pain.

 

There's the sound of approaching footsteps and it stops a few metres away.

 

He forces his eyes open, but all he sees is an obscure shadow standing in the doorway.

 

“Who are you?” he says, voice hoarse and cracking, “What do you want?”

 

The figure takes another step forward, still shrouded in darkness, but there's a sense of dread building in his stomach.

 

A sense of dread he's felt once before and there's a thought pushing from the back of his mind, but it's too jumbled and insane to piece together, but his gut is telling him he's right.

 

The man takes a step forward.

 

Into the light and . . . no.

 

Not a man.

 

A woman.

 

She looks the same as he remembers. Dark hair, and blue eyes he'd recognise anywhere.

 

There's a smile on her face and the second it widens on her lips is the second all the images that came before in dreams, to soothe his sleepless, nightmare ridden nights, are destroyed.

 

She doesn't sound the same though.

 

No.

 

Her voice is cold, and he realises he doesn't know her.

 

He never did.

 

“I've waited a long time for this,” she says.

 

It's no longer blood running down his face. No, it's something else wet and just as painful.

 

“Mom?”

 

“Hello Stefan,” she says.

 

Then he notices it. A dull glint in her hands, she toys with it, passes it from one hand to another as she takes another step forward. A heavy, ominous weight.

 

“I was beginning to wonder if Klaus would keep up his end of the bargain, but then,” she smiles, “Of course he would. After all, you're just a mere pawn in this little game of ours.”

 

He can't make sense of any of it. The rush of emotion at seeing her alive is tainted with the horror of realising she's _mad._

A sick, evil, rambling psychopath.

 

And when she raises her gun and points it squarely at him, the dam breaks and what fight is left floods away.

 

He closes his eyes.

 

And waits.

 

 

 

**TBC.**

 

 

\-----

 

 


	2. Part Two

 

 

\-----

 

 

Thirty six hours turns into seven days.

 

It's a long week of frantic searching and sleepless nights.

 

It's too risky for Damon to go out to Mexico to search for his brother, not with Mikaelson and his hawk-like eyes on him twenty-four seven.

 

It's no coincidence.

 

She knows the evil bastard has a hand in this somehow.

 

She thinks if she ever came face to face with the guy, she'd have no problem unloading the entire clip of her gun in him.

 

The CIA had needed another day on top of those thirty six hours before doing anything to try and locate their missing double agent. She'd had a few choice words for the Director, came away surprised she still had a job by the end of her tirade.

 

But it had been worth it.

 

At least they had organised for a retrieval team to fly out to Mexico City and search for him, to turn over every stone, but carefully. They didn't want the Alliance finding out and then blowing Stefan's cover. If he hadn't already been dead, then he certainly would be if they found out he'd been playing them all along.

 

Dead.

 

It's not a word she dwells on.

 

Tries not to think about it at all.

 

But it's hard, because all she can think of is his face when she'd shut him down, tossed away his friendship like it didn't mean a thing.

 

And why? Because she couldn't handle the little crush she'd developed? Was too scared he'd turn her down? Or worse, he'd never feel the same?

 

It's all lies.

 

Because she knows. Knows it isn't a meaningless little crush.

 

No, it's so much _more_ than that.

 

And _that'_ s what had scared her, made her turn tail and run.

 

And now it doesn't even matter. Because its been seven days and they have nothing, and with every hour, she loses what little hope that's left.

 

She's useless at work, can't concentrate, can't function, making stupid, tiny mistakes left, right and centre.

 

“Go home,” Bonnie had said to her softly.

 

“No. I need to find him.”

 

“Caroline . . .”

 

She'd looked up to find Director Stevens standing there behind her, serious expression looming behind his glasses, and she'd had to stamp down on the overwhelming urge to cry.

 

So here she is. At home, sulking in her pyjamas, watching an episode of _Friends_ and even they can't cheer her up.

 

The volume on the TV is low, but despite that she almost misses it.

 

There's a small sound, like someone scratching at the door. She sits up, presses mute on the remote and strains her hearing.

 

There's the sound again, followed by a harder bang and she literally jumps in her seat.

 

She quickly stands up, reaches for the gun hidden away in the first drawer of the cabinet in her living room and slowly approaches her front door. Standing off to the side, she takes a steadying breath as her heart roars away in her chest, thumping loud in her ears.

 

She counts silently, _one, two, three,_ and pulls . . .

 

It happens so fast, she can barely comprehend it.

 

All she knows is she somehow ends up with a bloody, beaten, half-unconscious Stefan Salvatore in her arms the minute she opens the door. He's almost dead weight, and she nearly falls backwards trying to keep him up.

 

Her gun slips from her hands, and she doesn't care.

 

Because he's breathing. Just barely. But he's breathing and he's alive.

 

“Stefan? Stefan, can you hear me? Stefan?”

 

He grunts in her arms as she tries to pull him inside, his hot breath blowing on the skin of her neck as he breathes through the pain.

 

His lips move against her skin, and she thinks she can make out the words.

 

“I'm sorry,” he says.

 

“Shh, I've got you. I've got you.”

 

He says nothing else as he finally surrenders to blissful unconsciousness and blacks out.

 

 

\-----

 

 

“There he is.”

 

The first thing he feels is the scratch of starched sheets on his sensitive skin, hears the rhythmic beep of machines next to his head, and it's so loud, _so loud_ and getting faster and faster . . .

 

“Hey, hey, calm down Stefan, you're safe. _You're safe._ ”

 

There are hands on his arms, holding him down and he wants to lash out.

 

“It's me, brother. It's Damon. Open your eyes.”

 

And he does. It's slow and painful and the lights are too bright, and he'll always wonder whose excellent idea it was to paint hospital rooms white, but it doesn't matter because his eyes find the tired, relieved ones of his brother, and it doesn't hurt as much.

 

“You look like shit,” he croaks out.

 

And Damon's face breaks down into a laugh. His head droops and he shakes it from side to side, “If you weren't so pitifully broken, I would punch you so hard right now. You scared the living crap out of me.”

 

“I'm sorry.”

 

“Yeah,” he breathes out.

 

He reaches up and pats his head, and those look suspiciously like tears watering his eyes, but he says nothing.

 

He looks around the room. There are a bunch of flowers on the bedside cabinet, the window sill is peppered with get well soon cards and he figures they're all courtesy of his colleagues. CIA ones and not Alliance. Damon confirms his suspicions as if he realises what he'd been thinking.

 

“You're in a CIA hospital. Mikaelson doesn't know you're back, figure he had had something to do with what happened-”

 

He doesn't know the half of it, but he lets him continue on, “So yeah, most of this sentimental drivel is from Langley. I mean, Susan?” He moves around the bed and picks up one of the more garish looking cards, “Who the hell is Susan?”

 

He tries not to laugh, it hurts too much.

 

He turns his head away, and it lands on the armchair Damon just vacated. There hanging over the side is a soft pink cardigan and he can't help raise his brows.

 

Damon notices the direction of his attention and answers his unspoken question.

 

“Agent Caroline Forbes.”

 

He swallows, mouth feeling unbearably dry.

 

“She's been here nearly every day, literally had to shove her out of here to get her to go home and shower. That stench you smell, all her. Bet she doesn't look half so pretty now, huh?”

 

“How long have I been out?”

 

“Three days. Whoever did this, sure did a number on you. Speaking of . . .”

 

And all of a sudden he feels nauseous. Oh so very nauseous.

 

“ _Who_ did do this to you?”

 

 

\-----

 

 

“Lillian Salvatore, widow of the late Giuseppe Salvatore, one of our very own, formerly of the SID, defected to the CIA in 1978. He was killed in action in 1993, Lillian Salvatore was then thought to have perished in a road traffic collision with a petrol tanker two years after. Evidence dug up ten years later suggested that Lillian Salvatore had in fact been responsible for her husband's death and faked her own. Initially, her allegiance was thought to be to the KGB, but it's since been classified as unknown. She's been a silent player on the board for many years now, her endgame still elusive.”

 

She sits there in the board room listening to Director Stevens and can't get her head around any of it. Most of all though, is how on earth a mother could shoot her own son, torture him and then leave him for dead. She bristles with anger, it burns in her belly and she thinks the woman might usurp Mikaelson for the number one position on her own hit list.

 

Damon Salvatore bursts with anger for a completely different reason, and for once, she agrees with him.

 

“You _knew_? You knew my mother is alive, that she's a complete raging psychopath, a murderer, a traitor and you didn't think to, oh I don't know, _tell us_?”

 

“It's highly classified information, and you didn't have clearance.”

 

“Clearance, my ass! It's my mother we're talking about here! She kidnapped my brother-”

 

“Agent-” she interrupts, but he's not listening

 

“Shot him and left him for dead-”

 

“Damon!”

 

“What?”

 

She looks pointedly at the door.

 

The whole room falls to shocked silence as Stefan Salvatore walks in leaning heavily on a crutch.

 

It's the first time she's seen him awake. When she'd heard he'd woken up, she'd panicked, made up some lame excuse about why she couldn't go to see him, despite the fact she'd been by his unconscious side the entire time. There was something easier about talking to a sleeping Stefan. Awake, she doesn't know what to say.

 

He looks terrible. Although somewhat better, granted. At least he has some colour in his cheeks, but his eyes are still sunken and she can tell he's bottling the pain.

 

“Agent Salvatore,” Director Stevens is saying, “Please, come in and join us.”

 

He hobbles slowly over to the table, takes a seat across and to the left of her.

 

She watches as he glances around the table, eyes flitting from one person to the next and he doesn't stop until they land on her.

 

His green eyes are remarkably clear and a small, careful, hesitant smile is pulling at the edges of his lips.

 

She turns her head away and tries to focus on the screen.

 

She can see him watching her out of the corner of her eye. He watches her for a few minutes more before finally turning away.

 

“So what the hell do we know?” Damon asks, frustration lacing every word.

 

“Just that she is a loose cannon, has powerful connections and her hand in many of the world's largest enemy organisations, including the Alliance. As I said, her primary objective still eludes us.”

 

“That's because it's probably what any megalomaniac wants. World domination!” Damon answers, arms up in the air, being his usual over-dramatic self.

 

Director Stevens looks down at his Senior Officer and shakes his head, “Thank you Damon for that useful insight.” He then turns his attention to the rest of the room, “Whatever it may be, our primary concern remains the same. The Alliance. We are getting closer to bringing them down. Our investigation into Sir Laurie Thomas has opened up new channels to explore and we will be briefing you all in due course. For now, this meeting is adjourned. Get back to work people.”

 

His announcement is followed by a cacophony of scraping chairs, shuffling of papers and dull chattering as the officers make their way out of the briefing room.

 

Her quick escape is not unexpectedly halted by Stefan.

 

“Caroline,” he says, as he comes around the table, stopping at the front of the room just as the last person leaves.

 

The room is empty and it's only the two of them.

 

And she knows she can't run from it any longer, “Hi.”

 

“Hi,” he says, tentative smile on his face.

 

“How are you?” she asks, and internally winces at the awkwardness.

 

“Alive,” he answers.

 

“Yeah,” she says with a small smile of her own, “I can see that.”

 

He grins, says, “Look . . .” about the same time she says, “Listen . . .” and then there's nervous laughter.

 

“You go first.”

 

She breathes in, and just lets it all come out, “I'm sorry. Before you left, there was all this weird tension between us and I just made everything bigger than it should have been. Because we're both professionals right? And just because we work together, doesn't mean we can't be friends too. And _we are_ friends, and I'm sorry for saying we weren't. I promised you I'd always be there for you and that you weren't alone and then I completely went back on my word. And then not coming to see you when you woke up? That wasn't cool, and I'm sorry for that too-”

 

“Caroline,” he interrupts, and she looks up at him, and the asshole is laughing at her and so she doesn't really think about it when she punches him on the shoulder with a “Shut up!”

 

It's only when he recoils back and grunts with pain, she realises and she's apologising all over again.

 

“It's okay,” he says through gritted teeth, “It's okay.”

 

She buries her head in her hands, “I'm a terrible, awful person.”

 

But then his hands are on hers, pulling them away from her face and says, “Yes you are.”

 

But he's grinning at her, and his eyes are telling her something else entirely and she feels the weight lift off her chest and she's grinning right back at him.

 

His hands are still holding hers when he looks at her and says, “What you said, about promising to always be there for me? When I was in that hell hole, I never for one second thought that you wouldn't be out there looking for me, so don't apologise for that. You never broke your promise, not in my mind.”

 

She smiles, and it may be a little watery but it can't be helped.

 

He doesn't let go of her hands as he finishes with a declaration that never really needed to be voiced aloud, but is nice to hear regardless;

 

“And just so we're clear,” he says, “it goes both ways.”

 

She steps forward then and hugs him.

 

And it's never felt more right.

 

 

\-----

 

 

It takes him another three weeks to recover.

 

Well, physically anyway.

 

The emotional wounds are yet to scab over, still bleeding a little every day.

 

Director Stevens orders him to see the CIA's psychologist, and he vehemently resists. Doesn't want to spend an hour every week lying on some shrink's couch, pouring his heart out, and spilling his Mommy issues. When he finally orders him to do it though, he has no choice.

 

Which leads him here.

 

Sitting in a rather drab and lifeless office, talking to a Dr Monroe about how _yes, his mother faked her own death, yes, she's a traitor, and yes, she shot him. Tell me, how would you feel?_

“Look, honestly I'm okay. I'm dealing, and anyway Caroline calls practically every day to check in on me and trust me I have plenty of opportunities to talk about my feelings. I'm fine.”

 

Dr Monroe gives him this pensive look which is really starting to grate, and then she asks, “Caroline? Agent Forbes, I presume, your handler?”

 

He curses his slip, “Yes.”

 

“So, you're friends, I take it?”

 

He doesn't mean to go on the defence so quickly, “Yes, there's nothing in the CIA handbook that says we can't be.”

 

“No, I know,” she says, sitting up straighter, and he doesn't like the look on her face. At all. “But you've thought about it,” she continues, “Being something more?”

 

“I thought your job was to listen, not put words in my mouth.”

 

“Well, you've hardly said anything Agent Salvatore. Look I'm not trying to pry, I'm trying to help. Anything you say is in the strictest of confidences.”

 

“Yeah well, my professional or personal relationship with Agent Forbes is not up for discussion.”

 

“Okay,” she says, sitting back in her chair.

 

“Good.”

 

His eyes wander to the wall clock, and he thinks.

 

Another twenty minutes, and never again.

 

_Never again._

 

 

\-----

 

 

Christmas rolls around once more, and she can hardly believe a year has flown by so fast.

 

A lot has happened in that space of time.

 

So much, she can hardly process it.

 

She's working a late evening back at Langley, trying to sort through her paperwork before she takes some time off for the holidays, when there's a rap at her door.

 

It's part way open, and standing there is none other than Stefan Salvatore dressed down in a plaid shirt and jeans. Sometimes she forgets just how good looking he actually is, but then there'll be something, a little grin, sparkling eyes, a well fitted suit, or a pair of well worn jeans and she just can't help herself.

 

“Hey.”

 

“Hey. You're here, which is good,” she turns away, opens one of her drawers as he steps into the room and takes a seat, “Because this is for you. I was going to give it to you earlier, but then you had to jet off to Nepal, and well here you are, so . . .”

 

He takes the proffered bag, and raises his brow as he peeps inside.

 

He laughs, takes it out the bag and holds it up. It's a green Christmas sweater with Rudolf across the front, a Santa hat hanging precariously from one of it's antlers.

 

“Really?”

 

“Yep.”

 

He laughs again, and she smiles wide.

 

The smile only gets bigger as he shrugs his shoulder and actually puts it on.

 

Delighted, she claps her hands and falls back in her chair with a guffaw.

 

“I love it,” he says.

 

“Me too.”

 

The smiles dims a little, and she can feel it. The strange energy that had started to build between them before he'd disappeared on that bogus mission to Mexico. She thinks he can sense it too, because he clears his throat before reaching up and lifting a small gift bag onto the table. He edges it closer to her.

 

She raises her brows in question, but he just smiles in response.

 

She takes it and looks inside.

 

Lifting it up, she unwraps the thin layer of tissue paper and swallows.

 

It's a beautiful, antique photo frame, and in the middle is a rare photograph of her, Bonnie and Stefan goofing around with some of Bonnie's spy gadgetry. Bonnie's in the middle, laser pointing at the camera, her and Stefan are either side. She's sticking out her tongue, and there's a smile on his face as he's looking at her.

 

“I thought-” he starts, but doesn't finish.

 

She places it on her desk, right where the picture of her and Tyler used to sit, and she flashes back to that day when they'd first talked, right here in this office.

 

She knows he's thinking it too.

 

“Thank you.”

 

“You're welcome.”

 

 

\-----

 

 

His return to Mikaelson's Alliance branch is treated with the typical fanfare.

 

Extensive questioning and rigorous psychological evaluation.

 

They're nothing if not scrupulous in weeding out disloyal agents and traitors in their midst.

 

Naturally, he passes with flying colours.

 

But not without a little help from Caroline first. She puts him through his paces with the newest, alarmingly accurate lie detector equipment that the Alliance were particularly fond of using. He's always been a pretty decent liar, boasts a great poker face, but he's not above knowing that one false move and it could be curtains for him.

 

And so he asks for help, and she's only too eager to try.

 

He remembers her starting off nice and easy.

 

_“_ _Okay, so we'll set a baseline and go from there.”_

_He nods, feels a little foolish, hooked up to the chair, sensors dotted along his forehead and on his chest, under his shirt._

_“_ _Fine.”_

_“_ _Is your name Stefan Salvatore?”_

_“_ _Yes.”_

_“_ _Do you work for the Alliance?”_

_“_ _Yes.”_

_His pulse rate climbs a little but the machine stays green._

_Her eyes flit from the screen and back to him, “Have you ever had any unauthorised contact with any members of any intelligence agency besides the Alliance?”_

_“_ _No.”_

_The machine bleeps and flashes red._

_She sighs, “You need to stay under 30.”_

_“_ _I know,” he says, trying not to get any more frustrated than he already is._

_“_ _You're reacting emotionally. This senses the blood flow to the emotional centres of your brain, you need to engage the reasoning part to fool it.”_

_He nods, determined, “Ask me again.”_

_She does. He answers the same, and the numbers on the screen drop and once again flashes green._

_“_ _Good, better.” He watches as she takes a breath, and then asks, “Are you romantically interested in anyone?”_

_He's thrown for a loop and just stares._

_She meets his gaze, expression giving nothing away and somehow he thinks she'd be great at this herself. “Could be a question,” she justifies._

_“_ _No, I'm not.”_

_The machine bleeps and there's a twitch of her lips, “Interesting.”_

_“_ _No wait, ask me again.”_

_“_ _Oh no, it's okay, we have our answer right here.”_

_She looks back at him, and her cheeks are tinged pink, and he thinks her heart must be racing as fast as his and somehow it no longer matters the machine is flashing red._

_“_ _You know, if this was real, I'd be dead already.”_

_And just like that the mood changes and the smile falls away, “You'll be fine. Let's keep working.”_

 

He ends up training on the machine for hours, lies his way through hundreds of questions designed to catch him out and by the end of it, thinks he may just stand a chance.

 

Thankfully, he's right.

 

He survives his intensive interrogation, but of course, Mikaelson is still sceptical, and couldn't give a damn that he'd returned in the first place.

 

But then, the bastard had set him up for it and had been more than a little surprised when he'd first walked into the building, somehow miraculously alive.

 

It makes him wonder just what exactly he'd wanted in return from Lily, and whether he'd got it. Whether offering him up on a platter had been worth it.

 

Nonetheless, he's back to sitting in the briefing room prepping for another Alliance mission before he knows it.

 

“This little compound,” Mikaelson says, flashing an image of a small canister on the screen, “Is purported to be worth just under ten billion dollars and the Japanese are bidding hard for it. I want it.”

 

 _Of course you do,_ he thinks.

“What is it?”

 

“A bioweapon that makes anthrax look like child's play.”

 

_Brilliant. Just what the world needs._

“There's only a limited stock in existence and it's in Belgrade, Serbia. Rebecca, Stefan, you're up.”

 

He swings his head around to the blonde sat along the table and opens his mouth to protest.

 

“Is there a problem?”

 

_Yes. She's crazy._

“No.”

 

“Good. You leave at 0400.”

 

 

\-----

 

“So, this Rebecca woman?”

 

He looks up at her and there's a smile on his face as if he'd been expecting it.

 

She's curious, and there's nothing wrong with it.

 

“Yeah, what about her?”

 

“Have you worked with her before?”

 

“A few times. The last time we had to pose as a married couple going undercover at the KGB, needed the specs for a new training facility the Russians were designing.”

 

“Oh,” she says, and she's being ridiculous and kind of can't help herself, “So you work together well then?”

 

He's slipping on his bulletproof jacket as he says, “Is there something in particular you're asking me?”

 

“No.”

 

“Uh huh,” he doesn't look convinced.

 

She drops the subject, “Okay, well good luck, I'll see you out there.”

 

“Thanks, and uh Caroline? Nothing ever happened. Between Rebecca and I. I mean, she's a little obsessed with me, but then she gets a little obsessed with everyone. I'm not _romantically interested in her.”_

 

She blushes, “That's not . . . I wasn't . . .”

 

He puts her out of her misery, “Be careful.”

 

She nods, “You too.”

 

 

 

\-----

 

 

The mission goes well, which after his latest bad run is a huge relief.

 

Caroline manages to get into the laboratory undetected, camouflaging well with the other scientists in there. She swaps out the vials of the compound under Rebecca's nose so that she can take the real bioagent back to the CIA for further investigation and disposal, and he ends up taking back a fake replica to the Alliance.

 

It's a job well done. Mission reports to be filed away and stored in the CIA archives.

 

Except not.

 

Because nothing is ever that simple and he should have learnt that by now.

 

A week later there are reports that scientists involved in the development of the bioagent have been falling down like flies, haemorrhaging from their gums, their nail beds and then the linings of their stomach. All dead within seventy-two hours of the onset of symptoms.

 

The CIA take both him and Caroline into quarantine as a precaution.

 

Reassure them that they've not been in direct contact with the chemical, so it's probably nothing to worry about, but better to be safe than sorry while they run their tests.

 

The room they lock them up in at least has a separate bathroom and two twin beds on opposite sides.

 

“Could be worse,” he says, looking up at Caroline's worried expression, “They could have locked you in here with Damon.”

 

She shudders, “True.”

 

“We're gonna be fine. Both of us.”

 

She smiles, but something tells him she doesn't quite believe him.

 

 

\-----

 

 

She's sitting cross-legged on her bed as Stefan paces in front of her.

 

“Oh I was gonna tell you before all this happened, we've finished analysing all of Sir Thomas' files.”

 

“And?”

 

“And he's been working to assimilate Bergdahl and Fujimura's branches of the Alliance into his-”

 

“Which means he'll be the majority shareholder-”

 

“And own the lion's share of the profits, and be the most powerful member-”

 

“Which is not going to sit well with the others-”

 

“Exactly.”

 

“So . . .”

 

“So,” she says rubbing her hands together in excitement, “I think the end of the Alliance is nigh.”

 

He smiles, but it's not the reaction she'd been hoping for.

 

He sits back on the bed, facing her, broody mask firmly in place.

 

“Hey,” she says, “This is good news.”

 

He looks up at her, “I know, it's just I don't want to get carried away, because . . .”

 

“I know, but we can hope.”

 

“Yeah,” he breathes out.

 

There's a long pause before he speaks again, and she can see him struggle with what it is he wants to say, “Caroline?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“When this is over?” He looks up at her and she waits for him to finish, “Will you walk away from this, with me?”

 

She thinks her heart shudders to a stop at the question.

 

Because what he's asking her, it's huge.

 

And it means _something_.

 

Although her heart knows the answer, her head hasn't quite caught up and she'll later hate that she hesitated, but she does, and he's backtracking.

 

“I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked you that. I know you went into this willingly, to do good, I can't-”

 

“It's okay,” she says, “It's just I haven't really thought about it.”

 

He nods, “Yeah. Sure. No, I know. I'm sorry.”

 

He says nothing after that. Lies back down on the bed, and closes his eyes.

 

 

\-----

 

 

Thankfully they put them in a room with windows.

 

Yes, they're high up and out of reach, but it allows the first rays of morning sunlight to stream in.

 

And of course, they hit her first.

 

Her blonde hair is splayed out on the white of her pillow, shining golden in the sunbeam. She's on her side facing him, and the peace of sleep is disrupted and she's squeezing her eyes tight against the day's natural wake-up call. She shifts her head away from the light and slowly blinks them open.

 

Her eyes find his straight away, and he's holding his breath.

 

She's beautiful.

 

“Good morning.”

 

She smiles, and it's half hidden in the fullness of her pillow, “Good morning.”

 

He settles into his own pillow, turns to face her completely from across the room, “Do you know you talk in your sleep?”

 

She blushes, “No I don't.”

 

“Oh you do,” he teases.

 

“What did I say?”

 

“Oh something about not forgetting the party streamers, it sounded _really_ important.”

 

She shakes her head, “Must have been. Something you don't know about me, I am an exceptional party planner.”

 

“I never would have guessed.”

 

The smile on her lips widens and he can't stop staring, eyes roaming from her eyes, over the slope of her nose, down to her lips, and back up again.

 

His question from the day before rings in his ears as she looks back at him, eyes bright and steady.

 

It had come from nowhere, and he isn't sure what had possessed him to ask such a heavy, loaded question in the first place. Doesn't even know what he meant by it, what he was looking for; can't put a finger on this ever growing feeling in the pit of his stomach, trying to climb up and out and reach sunlight.

 

A voice in his head scoffs in derision.

 

 _Of course you do,_ it says, _you know exactly what it is you're feeling._

_You're just a coward._

He sighs, breaks away to turn his head and stare up at the ceiling instead.

 

But she's still looking at him.

 

And the silence extends just a few minutes more, until she finally wades in with a tentative, softly spoken question that catches him entirely off-guard;

 

“Do you miss her?”

 

He expels a breath, “Yes.”

 

She says nothing.

 

But he's overcome with an overwhelming need to explain, because yes he misses her. He always will. But it doesn't hurt so much any more, he's not crippled by her absence. What he feels is _guilt_. Because he thinks of her less and less these days. And maybe it's because he's healing, and maybe time does mend all wounds, or maybe _it has everything to do with her._

But he doesn't know how to say that in so many words.

 

But Caroline does;

 

“It's okay to miss her, you know. You were in love, you were going to get married, there's no right or wrong answer for how long you should take to get over it. Maybe you never will, but one day, you'll wake up and you'll have moved on without realising it. And that? That's okay too.”

 

He turns back to face her, watches as she bites her lower lip, waits for a response.

 

What he wants to say is, _maybe I already have._

What he says is, “Thank you.”

 

 

\-----

 

 

It's later in the afternoon, when they are literally climbing the walls to get out of there that the Lead Biochemist, Henshaw, and Director Stevens turn up.

 

She stops her pacing and Stefan's unfolding his legs from his position, sitting back against the wall on his bed.

 

They open the door, and it's the Director who stands in the doorway and delivers the good news;

 

“Agent Salvatore, you are free to go, you've tested negative for the virus' antigens.”

 

She grins, utterly relieved as she looks across at him, but he's not looking back. No, he's staring at Henshaw, frown firmly in place.

 

And the other shoe finally drops.

 

“And Agent Forbes?” Stefan asks.

 

She can feel her heart rate speed up, bile rising in her throat, “I tested positive.”

 

It's a statement, not a question.

 

The biochemist shakes his head, “No, your results were inconclusive Agent Forbes. We need to carry out some further tests to be sure, but there's no cause for alarm. We just need a few more hours to clear you.”

 

Stefan turns to look at her. There's a small, reassuring smile on his lips, and she really wants to believe him, but she's got a lot better at reading him. Worry shades the flecks in his eyes and his hands are still fisted at his sides.

 

She smiles back, “I'll be fine. Go.”

 

She's acutely aware of their audience, has to quell the desire to reach forward, hug him, hold his hand, anything really.

 

“I'll be fine,” she says again, this time with a little more belief and just a hint of willing it to be true.

 

He nods, gives her one last look before slipping out the door.

 

It closes behind him.

 

And just like that the room feels a whole lot emptier.

 

 

\-----

 

 

Worrying about Caroline takes up most of the next twelve hours after his release.

 

When he finally gets a call that Agent Forbes has been cleared and has been allowed to leave quarantine, the overwhelming relief is dizzying.

 

He feels Director Stevens' eyes on him, almost as if he's trying to get inside his mind and figure out what it is he's thinking, feeling. He wonders just how transparent he is when it comes to _her._

He doesn't really get a chance to ponder it though.

 

No, because Langley is buzzing and whispers of another walk-in are spreading like wildfire.

 

It would be the first since him.

 

The Director disappears, phone at his ear, and he can't make out any of what's being said.

 

He finds Bonnie milling about in the throng of officers hanging around the cubicles.

 

“What's going on?”

 

She looks up at him and although he may have a great poker face, he's even better at reading people. And right now, looking at Bonnie Bennett, his gut is telling him that once again his world is about to tilt on it's axis and he'll be hanging on with nothing but his fingertips.

 

“Bonnie,” he says, “Tell me.”

 

She looks up at him, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. He can see the internal debate raging on, deciding whether she should tell him what she knows or not.

 

Mind made up and with a sigh, she finally relents;

 

“Look, I don't know for sure, but apparently she walked in here about an hour ago, and handed herself over to the CIA.”

 

He's getting an inkling, but just needs her to say it, “Who?”

 

“Lillian Salvatore, your mother.”

 

 

\-----

 

 

The first thing she does with her freedom is head straight home for a shower.

 

It's been a long twelve hours waiting for them to clear her.

 

All sorts of thoughts had flitted through her mind in that time. Most of the morbid _I never got a chance to do this_ or _I never got a chance to_ say _this_ variety.

 

Things like how she never spent enough time with her parents, never tried hard enough to forge a meaningful relationship with either of them. Then there were her regrets over how things with Tyler had ended. He may not have been her forever, but she _had_ loved him and had never meant to break his heart.

 

There were other things too, things she knows she'll never have the luxury of having, not in her line of work. Because getting married, having a family? It's too dangerous.

 

And what happened to Stefan is living proof of that.

 

_Stefan._

Just another thing she'd think she'd regret. And she hadn't been able to shake that particular thought from her head. That maybe, _maybe_ , the time for denial was done.

 

They've been treading a thin line since the day they met, and over time that line has almost vanished to nothing. They've danced across it and scuttled back now too many times to count.

 

She looks up at the mirror, wipes away the steam with her arm and stares at her reflection.

 

 _No regrets_ , she thinks.

 

_Tell him. Today._

There's a sense of peace that comes over her then and she smiles into the mirror, reaches a hand up to brush a wet strand of hair off her cheek, but the picture is marred by a line of red trailing across her skin.

 

Her breath catches in her throat, and everything is deathly silent.

 

She looks down.

 

There.

 

Under her fingernails.

 

It's blood.

 

 

\-----

 

 

“She's not talking.”

 

Stefan stands there, arms folded across his chest, staring at the floor.

 

He doesn't even feel like he's standing there, doesn't feel like he has a physical presence in the room, let alone a mental one.

 

He's had to process a lot of shit through his years working for the Alliance, but this? He doesn't know what to do. Doesn't know how to deal.

 

“Well how about we shoot her in the stomach and see how she likes it? Maybe she'll talk then!”

 

The anger coming off Damon standing there next to him is scorching, and even Director Stevens flinches with it.

 

It certainly doesn't help matters when he adds, “She said she'll only talk to Stefan.”

 

At the mention of his name, he looks up.

 

Damon's eyes are wild and crazy, “What? No way. He is not going anywhere near-”

 

“I'll do it.”

 

All eyes turn on him.

 

He can see the protest ready to burst from Damon's lips, but he cuts him off and says again with a tone that brokers no argument, _“I'll do it.”_

 

He walks away then.

 

Doesn't hear the ring of Damon's phone, and he's already turned the corner before he can hear who's on the other end of the line.

 

 

\-----

 

 

She tries Bonnie first, but it goes straight to voice mail.

 

Tries one more time as if that'll miraculously change things.

 

Of course it doesn't.

 

She doesn't know why she doesn't call him, but she finds herself scrolling back up her phone from 'S' to 'D' and dials, blood smearing her screen.

 

“Blondie?” Surprise.

 

“I need help.”

 

 Fear.

 

 

\-----

 

 

She's been given the luxury of a cell with a bed and a toilet out of view of the large glass window that makes up one of the four walls.

 

She's sitting in the middle of the open space, back to him, legs folded, meditating.

 

“You came.”

 

He breathes in, focusses on the steady beat of his own heart, “You said you wanted to talk, I'm here, so talk.”

 

She gets up slowly, turns around and meets his eyes.

 

He holds her gaze, forces himself to not look away, “Why are you here?”

 

She steps closer, stops just on the other side of the glass and it's so spotless, it feels like she's standing right there, and he can almost feel her breath on his face.

 

She doesn't answer, just tilts her head a fraction and studies him.

 

He shifts on his feet, “Why hand yourself in? What do you want?”

 

Still she doesn't answer, just smiles.

 

He shakes his head, mutters under his breath, “This is a waste of time,” and turns to leave.

 

Except she opens her mouth then and asks, “Are you happy?”

 

He stays where he is, turns his head back towards her, “Let's get one thing straight, you are _not_ my mother. You are an internationally wanted criminal, an enemy of the state, and I am not going to stand here and play your little mind games. So either talk, or sit here and rot.”

 

And again, nothing but a smile.

 

He shakes his head, turns to leave once more, but only gets a few steps further before she speaks and his blood runs cold;

 

“How is she?”

 

He doesn't take the bait, doesn't ask her who.

 

“She must be important. You kept calling out her name in your delirious state. Let me think, what was her name again . . .”

 

He closes his eyes and wills her not to say it.

 

“Ah yes, Caroline? Was it? I would love to meet her.”

 

He whirls on the spot, jaw clenched, anger barely restrained, “Not gonna happen.”

 

Something in her face tells him she already knows it, and that? That doesn't sit right with him. He brushes the feeling off and walks out of there.

 

The uneasy feeling roiling around in the pit of his stomach doesn't let up.

 

It isn't helped much either when he gets back to the centre of operations and finds Damon standing there with a grim, worried and almost frightened expression on his face.

 

“What? What's wrong?”

 

But just like all those years ago, he thinks he knows, and all he can think is _please_ _don't. Don't say it._

“It's Caroline . . .”

 

 

\-----

 

 

The metallic taste in her mouth is a constant and the burning in her chest feels like someone's lit her oesophagus alight and it's melting.

 

She knows that it literally is.

 

Slowly and painfully.

 

She wishes they would just knock her out, she's already drifting in and out of consciousness, and she's just so damn exhausted. Why won't they put her out of her misery?

 

They've stuck her in an adult sized incubator of some sort.

 

To protect her as much as the outside world, they tell her.

 

But she's seen the fear in the doctors' eyes every time they come near her to run another one of their useless blood tests, and she thinks it's more of the latter.

 

She's lost sense of time, doesn't know how long it's been since anyone's come to check up on her.

 

It doesn't even register at first when she feels a gloved hand reach in through the small port holes and touch her hand. But then, this time it's different. Whoever it is grabs hold of her hand and squeezes, thumb rubbing over the back of it in comforting circles and she turns with effort to find familiar green eyes staring at her.

 

“Hey,” she opens her mouth to say, but knows she hasn't made a single sound.

 

He reads her lips all the same, “Hi.”

 

He looks like he hasn't slept, hasn't eaten, like the whole world is sitting perched on his broad shoulders and it's just getting heavier day by day.

 

She wants to tell him to stop looking so serious, to laugh and joke and say _hey, no one's dying_ (except she is).

 

She wants to reassure, lie and say _I'm not scared, I'll be okay._ And of course, he'll see right through it and sigh her name in that way he does, like he doesn't have a clue what to do with her but wouldn't change a thing.

 

It's moments like those that make her think, maybe she isn't alone in her feelings.

 

Maybe he feels them too.

 

But it's too late. The timer that started the day she was born has malfunctioned and sped up and is about to splutter and die, and all her regrets will vanish along with it.

 

There's so much she wants to say but she only has the energy for one, “I'm so tired.”

 

He squeezes her hand and whispers, “I know.”

 

Her eyes slip close as she rolls her head towards him.

 

“I'm gonna find you a cure Caroline, you're gonna be okay, trust me.”

 

And he sounds so sure, like if he says it with enough conviction, he'll make it come true.

 

Eyes still closed, she smiles, “Always looking out for me.”

 

He says nothing.

 

“Stefan?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

She wishes she could open her eyes, “Yes . . . the answer to your question. I should . . . I should have said _yes.”_

She feels a hand push back her sweat soaked hair from her face, thumb run over her cheek, before he says his last three words and leaves;

 

“You still can.”

 

 

\-----

 

 

Damon doesn't even bother trying to hold him back from storming right back into the cells and facing off with Lily.

 

He knows she had had something to do with it.

 

His gut tells him it's the truth.

 

But she just smiles in that same infuriating way when he confronts her.

 

Answers his questions with a question of her own;

 

“Do you love her?”

 

He clenches his jaw, curls his hands so tight, his nails dig painfully into his skin and he draws blood, “That's none of your business.”

 

“It is if you want her to live. So just one question, do you love her?”

 

He doesn't know what sick mind games she's playing, if it's just to taunt him with the power she has over him despite being the one locked away in a glass lidded box? But he's desperate now. Every second counts, and so he closes his eyes as he breathes it out, _can't_ look at her when there's really only one person he should say this to.

 

He hopes he still gets his chance.

 

“Yes.”

 

The smile on her face has dropped away when he opens them, instead she's staring at him like she's trying to pick him apart. Finally, she says, “Taipei, Keelung City, Qidu District, there's a small factory warehouse, a front for Chinese Intelligence, you'll find what you need for a counter-agent there. You'll need to take a sample of her blood with you.”

 

He stares at her, “If this is another set up to-”

 

“I've given you what you want to know. Trust me or don't.”

 

The rest of the sentence isn't spoken but it hangs over him, and he knows he doesn't have a choice.

 

He turns around and leaves, doesn't offer her another glance back, and heads straight for the Director.

 

He doesn't even have to ask.

 

“Go,” he says, “Take Damon with you.”

 

He nods, not needing to be told twice.

 

 

\-----

 

 

She dreams of sunlight dappling through leaves.

 

Blinking up at smiling green eyes.

 

And the ache in her chest is only the warmth of peace.

 

He kisses her and she melts away.

 

And there is no pain.

 

 

\-----

 

 

Stefan nearly gets a bullet in the chest.

 

Damon gets one in his arm. Again. Which of course infuriates him no end.

 

“It's a scratch,” Stefan tells him, “Suck it up.”

 

And yes, it's a surface wound, but still, it's enough to piss him off and maybe, _not so accidentally_ , put a bullet in a gas cylinder and blow up the entire factory on their way out.

 

Stefan doesn't let go of the little vial in his hand the entire journey home.

 

Heads straight for the hospital, still covered in soot and dust.

 

Stays put and doesn't move until they've injected the full dose of the counter-agent into her IV. His eyes never leave her heart monitor, watches as the numbers fall and her heart rate settles, as her blood pressure readings rise and are no longer in her boots. The rise and fall of her chest eases and the grimace lines creasing her face smooth away.

 

He barely hears the doctor say, “She's going to be okay.”

 

They tell him she probably won't wake for another ten hours at least, six of those being the medically induced coma they've put her in.

 

Someone pats him on the shoulder, tells him, “Go home, son. Go get cleaned up and get some rest. There's nothing more you can do.”

 

But see, that's where they're wrong.

 

He drives back to Langley, takes the elevator to the fifth floor and walks straight to the biochemical engineering division but finds he's a little late.

 

Damon's beaten him to it, seems to have figured it out around about the same time as him. He's standing there with the barrel of his gun pressed up against Henshaw's head and the man looks utterly terrified.

 

He doesn't care. Steps forward, swings his arm and punches him in the face as Damon holds him up.

 

“Who do you work for?”

 

“I don't know what you're talking about man!”

 

“You need direct contact with the virus to contract it, she never once touched it, inhaled it. You're the one who's been testing us and the bioagent, drawing blood, and oh I don't know, maybe infecting her at the same time?”

 

“I don't kno- mmmph.” His words are muffled behind his hand as he presses it against him.

 

“Stop lying,” he says, voice low and through gritted teeth.

 

Damon presses the gun into his back, “I'd listen to him if I were you. You messed about with the wrong girl.”

 

There's just the muffled sound of lips moving against his palm before he removes it.

 

Henshaw takes a deep breath, all sense of panic fading away as his voice suddenly takes on a cold hard edge, “You already know.”

 

He does.

 

Just needed it confirmed.

 

He purses his lips and nods, swings back his arm and this time he knocks him out cold.

 

 

\-----

 

 

She's getting sick of hospital rooms.

 

If she's not the one who's in mortal peril, it's _him_ who's fighting for his life.

 

She supposes it _had_ been her turn this time around.

 

She may be sick of it, but that doesn't mean she signed up for this job to be wrapped in cotton wool either.

 

Still, for once, it would be nice to come out on the winning end.

 

There is one thing that's not so terrible about her hospital room though, and she finds him by her bedside.

 

Head pillowed in his arms, fast asleep, exhaustion having finally claimed him.

 

Her hand finds its way to tangle in his hair and she runs her fingers through it. It's as soft as it looks and she gets a kick out of messing up his usually perfect hero-hair, trademark _Stefan 'Special Agent' Salvatore._

 

Attempts at stifling a laugh behind her hand fail, and he stirs awake. Green eyes blink open and find hers.

 

Her hand drops away but he's grabbing hold and isn't letting go.

 

“Hi.”

 

“Hi.”

 

He drops his head, grasps her hand a little tighter before looking up, “I'm sorry.”

 

“For what?”

 

“My mother-”

 

“You are not responsible for her actions.”

 

“I should have seen this coming.”

 

“How? No offence Stefan, but your mom? Kind of a psycho, who knows what she does and why? I mean if a team of highly intelligent analysts can't get to the bottom of her motives, what hope do we have?”

 

He shakes his head.

 

“Bonnie came around earlier today, filled me in. You know, it makes me wonder, if we have other traitors waiting to stab us in the back.”

 

“Most likely.”

 

“Sucks.”

 

He laughs, and nods in agreement, “It does.”

 

He brushes his thumb across her skin and she looks down at their hands, “Stefan . . .”

 

“Caroline . . .”

 

There's a teasing lilt to his voice, and when she looks back up at him, her words die on her lips.

 

He doesn't let go of her hand as he rises and sits himself on the bed next to her.

 

She swallows, holds her breath when he reaches forward with his other hand and curls a strand of her hair away behind her ear.

 

“Caroline,” he says again, “Would you like to go out to dinner with me?”

 

She doesn't miss a beat, “What, now? I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm kind of stuck to a hospital bed, doctor's orders.”

 

“Mmm,” he nods, smirk on his lips, “Damn doctor.”

 

Her expression turns serious, too scared to hold on to the fantasy when reality is snapping at their heels, “But what about the Alliance?”

 

He sighs, “I'm tired of waiting. I'm tired of them holding me back for fear of what they might do. Life is not nearly long enough for regrets.”

 

She takes a moment.

 

Takes what must feel like an absolute age to really digest just what he's admitting, before finally answering him;

 

“Yes.”

 

He grins and it's stunning.

 

He reaches forward then, face stopping inches from hers and for one heart-stopping moment she thinks he may just kiss her, but he brushes his lips against her forehead instead, and smiles into her skin, “Get some rest. I'll call you in the morning.”

 

“Okay.”

 

It's a promise he keeps.

 

 

\-----

 

 

It's two weeks later that she's officially given a clean bill of health.

 

It's also two weeks later that the CIA make their breakthrough.

 

Director Stevens stands at the head of the table in the conference room and explains how over the course of the past few months, since finding out about Sir Thomas' plans to expand his branch of the Alliance and assume majority power from the twelve leaders involved, the CIA have been busy feeding intel to all the other branches and sowing the seeds of distrust and suspicion.

 

“We have successfully managed to upset the balance of power within the Alliance, and we have it on good authority that the twelve leaders will be meeting in secrecy tomorrow at 1800 G.M.T. in London with plans to assassinate Thomas, Bergdahl and Fujimura. During this time all Head Offices of each of the twelve branches will be at their most vulnerable.”

 

Caroline catches his eyes from across the room, they're wide and disbelieving. And he knows the feeling, can hardly believe it's true. But for the first time, he can actually see it.

 

A world free from the terror of the Alliance.

 

It's tantalisingly close, and he can't afford to dream.

 

Not yet.

 

He turns his attention back to the Director as he continues with his briefing;

 

“This will be the biggest global undertaking yet. Tomorrow at 1800 G.M.T. a team of MI5 agents will close in and apprehend all twelve leaders, alive if possible. Simultaneously, selected teams of the CIA, MI5, FSB, BND, DPSD, AISE, MUST, CNI, GIP, Chinese National Security Bureau, Japanese Ministry of Defense, and India's Joint Intelligence Committee will swarm their respective Alliance offices and bring them down.”

 

He goes on to describe the logistics of the mission and there's a building excitement in his stomach and a sense of peace. That finally, he'll get his justice. Not only for _her_ , but for them _all._

\-----

Caroline's urge to talk to Stefan as soon as the briefing is done, is halted by Bonnie as she pulls her off to the side.

 

At her expression, she stops in her tracks, all thoughts fly out the window, “Bonnie? What's wrong?”

 

“I thought I'd get in there first and give you a heads up.”

 

She frowns, “About what?”

 

“The intel, about the London meeting? It came from Lily.”

 

“What?”

 

Bonnie nods, “And that's not all. She had terms for giving us the information.”

 

“Of course she did. Let me guess, her freedom?”

 

“Yes, but not just that.”

 

She waits, dread building.

 

“Son-of-a-bitch Stevens agreed to let her have a chance to talk to _you_ before she's freed.”

 

“Me? She wants to speak with me? Why?”

 

“I have no idea, but I know Damon was fuming when he found it.”

 

More surprise, “Damon?”

 

“Apparently he tried railroading Stevens into going back on his word, nearly got his ass kicked out, it got pretty colourful.”

 

“Damon?” she asks again in complete disbelief.

 

Bonnie rolls her eyes, “You know, he isn't _that_ terrible . . .”

 

Caroline raises her eyebrows, gives her a knowing look to which her friend responds with a “Shut up. Not the point. Point is _be careful.”_

She hugs her friend then, and says, “Don't worry, I will.”

 

 

\-----

 

 

When he finds out, he's spitting mad with rage.

 

“I tried,” Damon tells him.

 

He knows he did, but he's angry. After everything she's done, how could they trust her, how could anyone in their right minds agree to it.

 

Director Stevens tries to justify it. Explains they're not planning on letting her walk away, no. There's a contingency plan in place to track her after they let her go, give her the illusion of walking free before going straight back after her.

 

As if that makes any of this better.

 

It doesn't make any sense though. What did she have to gain in getting herself caught in the first place? Why did she turn herself in?

 

And then it hits him.

 

She wanted this.

 

She wanted the Alliance in ruins.

 

And he's starting to suspect, it's exactly what Mikaelson wanted all along too.

 

To what endgame, he doesn't know.

 

But Caroline? What does she want with her?

 

He tries to assure him of her safety, says he can stand and watch the security feed if he's worried, and that she's not going in alone. She has guards with her.

 

That doesn't put his mind at ease though.

 

Doesn't make him any less angry.

 

“If anything happens . . .”

 

“It won't.”

 

 

\-----

 

 

Meeting Mrs Salvatore face-to-face is as unnerving as she'd imagined it would be.

 

There's something so cold and calculating about her as she stands in the middle of her cell and silently pulls her apart.

 

She clears her throat, “Apparently you wanted to speak with me?”

 

“Caroline Forbes,” she says.

 

She shifts slightly, “That's me. Now why did you want to see me?”

 

She doesn't say anything more, just stares at her and then she smiles and her skin crawls.

 

She looks a lot like Damon, she realises. It's the eyes and shape of her face, the colouring, and she has that ability too, to command attention effortlessly like both of the Salvatore brothers. But that's where the family resemblance ends.

 

“I just wanted to meet the woman who stole my son's heart.”

 

She refuses to give her the luxury of a response, because she knows it's exactly what she's angling for.

 

And so she shrugs, “Well now you've met her and if that's all, I'll be going now.”

 

Caroline doesn't make it very far, before she's calling her back, “Wait.”

 

She turns.

 

“Just one more question.”

 

She waits.

 

“Do you love him?”

 

“Yes.”

 

She doesn't even hesitate, knows it as well as the beat of her own heart.

 

Lily smiles then, and for a moment she thinks she actually means it.

 

“I know I can't expect anything from you, but please pass on a message to them both.”

 

She breathes in, “And what's that?”

 

_“_ _Truth takes time.”_

\-----

Today is the day.

 

The day the Alliance will burn to the ground, and he'll be able to leave this life behind him in his rear view mirror.

 

He only hopes Caroline hasn't changed her mind.

 

That she'll still come with him.

 

And it's almost as if she knows what he's thinking, because she's suddenly there replacing his hands with her own and doing up the last buckle of his tactical gear.

 

She stands back and hands him his gun.

 

There's a lot he wants to say, but she beats him to it.

 

“I'll see you on the other side. But just in case . . .”

 

And then she's pressing her lips hard against his before pulling away.

 

The moment is fleeting and over too soon.

 

He watches her back as she leaves.

 

 

\-----

 

 

They're in position.

 

It's just a case now of waiting for the right moment to burst in through the doors.

 

They've been told to use minimal force, defend as necessary.

 

A lot of the people in the office are just as much victims of this as Stefan had been, lead to believe that they're fighting the good fight, but instead manipulated into doing the Alliance's dirty work.

 

She looks to her left.

 

Finds Stefan crouched against the opposite wall along with other agents and there's just an expression of pure focus on his face.

 

And that's exactly what she needs to do.

 

Focus.

 

There's not much time to do it either, because the command comes through their radios and the doors are being blown open in _three, two, one . . ._ the smoke grenades follow after and then it's all guns blazing as they storm in.

 

Most of the workers are civilians, don't put up a fight as they fall to the ground on shaking legs with their hands above their heads.

 

The ones who know? Those are easy enough to spot, unafraid to point their guns and shoot, taking their oath to the Alliance to their graves.

 

It ends up being bloodier and messier than it needs to be, but it can't be helped.

 

She loses sight of him in the fight, trusts enough to know he can take care of himself.

 

She's not sure how long the whole thing lasts.

 

It seems to go on for hours, and yet it somehow feels like it's over in a flash.

 

In reality, its forty-seven minutes before the last Alliance loyalist is cuffed around the wrists and pulled outside into a waiting van to be taken into custody.

 

She stands there in the rubble, takes it in, but she's only really looking for one person.

 

_Him._

 

And there he is.

 

Standing across the room, covered in dirt and blood like the day they met.

 

Her eyes meet his and everything else fades away.

 

 

\-----

 

 

There's a part of him that stands there, looks around at the destruction and feels a sense of loss.

 

He'd been bright eyed and eager walking into this office all those years ago.

 

Keen to follow in his father's footsteps, and fight the good fight.

 

He remembers that feeling, remembers it being crushed the day he learned the truth, the day they killed her.

 

For a moment he thinks he sees her face in the rubble, a phoenix rising from its ashes and he thinks, now, at long last, he can put her to rest.

 

It seems apt then that his eyes find hers.

 

She stands at the far end of what remains of the large office space.

 

Its bullet holes, and smoking guns, broken chairs and demolished walls, sparking wires and hanging lights, but he doesn't see any of that.

 

Keeping his eyes on hers, he strides forwards as she walks towards him and meets him half way.

 

His lips finds hers, and then he's kissing her.

 

Head cradled in his hands, she clutches him just as tight.

 

He breathes out and breathes her in.

 

“Finally.”

 

She smiles against his lips, and agrees;

 

_“_ _Finally.”_

 

 

\-----

 

 

 

It's much later that they hear.

 

Back at Langley, once they've had time to scrub away the dirt and let the euphoria settle.

 

It's Damon that breaks the news.

 

“So the CIA's plan to re-capture Mommy dearest has failed spectacularly, her tracker led to a dead end.”

 

Somehow that doesn't surprise her at all.

 

“But you know what's even better?” Damon continues, clearly irritated, “Mikaelson, the slippery son-of-a-bitch, never turned up in London. So we only got eleven of the twelve bad guys, which I know, not terrible, but still . . .”

 

Caroline slips her hand into Stefan's and squeezes.

 

“But the Alliance is gone?” she asks.

 

“The Alliance is gone,” Damon re-affirms.

 

She turns away from him and looks up at Stefan, tugs on his arm, and forces him to meet her eyes.

 

“So what do you think?” she asks.

 

She knows that he had always wanted to walk away when all this was done and dusted, and she's ready to walk with him, in whatever direction that may be.

 

And this? This is his choice to make.

 

Finish what he started or never look back.

 

Neither wrong.

 

Neither right.

 

It's his mother, after all.

 

He slips a hand around her waist, pulls her in tight and chooses;

 

“I'm in if you are.”

 

She smiles.

 

“I'm in.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**End.**

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
